


On My Knees, Looking for the Answer

by Phia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Not Canon Compliant, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phia/pseuds/Phia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock Holmes, would you do the honour, of marrying me?”</p><p>Sherlock’s face was cast downward; his eyes were firmly placed on the case file in his lap, his hands clasped on top of them. He tilted his vision upward slightly and his eyes locked with John’s. They burned with something that John would never be able to see, and suddenly, the smile dropped from his face.</p><p>“No, John. I will not marry you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sick and haven't edited this. I'll look at it soon.

Looking back on it, John knew that he should have been nervous, but for some unspeakable reason, he wasn’t. Sherlock’s emotions were always spread over his face like a sunset cast upon grassy plains. They knew that they loved each other, and John never expected to live the rest of his life alone or with someone else. After all that they had gone through, they were attached and couldn’t leave each other, despite all of the projectiles thrown at them.

They had just finished afternoon tea, and John was watching Sherlock curl up with a case file - he read them like books, and they gave him even more entertainment than literature. John rubbed the arms of the chair quickly before standing up and striding across the room. The fireplace cast flickering flames across the walls, bathing the room in a fiery glow. He took a deep breath before kneeling down in front of Sherlock, digging his left hand into his jean pocket, and pulling out a small velvet box and clutching it with both hands. With the index finger of his right hand, he flicked it open quickly, letting light shine upon his grandfather’s silver ring still nestled tightly in its holding place.

“We’ve been through a lot together, and I don’t ever want to lose you.” A genuine smile slipped onto John’s face as he stared upward at his lover. “If we ever did lose each other, I’d want this to be lost with you. Sherlock Holmes, would you do the honour, of marrying me?”

Sherlock’s face was cast downward; his eyes were firmly placed on the case file in his lap, his hands clasped on top of them. He tilted his vision upward slightly and his eyes locked with John’s. They burned with something that John would never be able to see, and suddenly, the smile dropped from his face.

“No, John. I will not marry you.” Sherlock’s tone was even and prepared, as if he was speaking about the weather and not refusing his long-time partner’s marriage proposal with an almost disinterested air.

John’s mouth opened in a silent retort, before he slapped the box closed. “Fine. Fine. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t find it in himself to say anything else, but he managed to place the box back into his pocket and stood up, his form looming over Sherlock’s, still calmly seated in the chair, fingers trailing over the top of the file.

 _I am **so** stupid_ , and with that thought, he fled the room.

 

* * *

 

What did normal people do in situations like this? John sighed as he tapped his fingers against his lips. He was seated in the clinic, but his own mental shack - in place of a palace - was nicely allowing him to replay the words that Sherlock had somehow spat in his oh-so-elegant way.

_No, John. I will not marry you._

They hadn’t kissed or touched for three days. Sherlock inhabited the living room, the back wall cluttered by taped up photographs of different crime scenes and reports that lead to nowhere. John had finally cleared off a part of the kitchen table to read his newspaper and drink his tea, but he spent most of his time trying to write up new cases for the blog in his bedroom, or reading the new novel that he had recently bought, except that he wasn’t getting past much than the thirteenth page. He’d read a little past that, forget all of the information that he had just inhaled, and have to return back to that blasted page each time.

Why didn’t Sherlock want to marry him? It wasn’t because of any “sociopathic” related fears - if Sherlock was afraid to feel, they wouldn’t have gotten into a relationship. And what were they supposed to do now? Should John try to continue the relationship, or should he just give up on what seemed to be a failed venture? People dated to marry, but he wasn’t going to marry Sherlock, so should they even be dating?

He couldn’t sit here and let his thoughts tail each other in a continuous cycle, so John gathered his things and slipped on his jacket before walking out of the office.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, we need to talk.” His boyfriend looked up from where he was hunched over a microscope, dark brown curls bouncing with the movement. The detective followed him wordlessly into the living room, where he took the chair across from John. The chairs were almost close enough for their knees to brush.

“About the proposal . . . I want to know why.”

Sherlock’s serene blue eyes flicked over his face, taking in every wrinkle and analyzing his every gesture. “You want to know why I didn’t accept?”

“Yes.” John bit his bottom lip and teased it between his teeth. He really needed to know the answer to this question.

“John, I’m comfortable with the relationship we have right now. Getting married won’t change anything.”

“You didn’t need to say ‘no’,” John commented. “You could have just explained yourself a little more.”

“What I said was true,” Sherlock retorted, grabbing the sides of the chair and straightening his form. “I won’t marry you.”

“So that’s it?” John threw his hands in the air out of exasperation. “We’re just going to be dating forever? I’m going to stay a bachelor forever?”

“You knew what you were in for when you asked to have dinner with me,” Sherlock said in return. “We’re not ordinary people. We were not destined to have a regular relationship.”

“That’s not the point. Marriage binds two people and shows that they’re a unit. Sherlock, we’re supposed to be a unit. We’re supposed to be _together_ and people should know.”

“That’s all you care about,” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes in frustration. “Other people and how they see you, or _us_. It’s something that I can’t stand about you.”

“What _else_ can’t you stand about me?” John hissed.

Sherlock abruptly stood up, shaking his head at the same time. “This is ridiculous, and I won’t discuss this right now.” John was at a loss for words as Sherlock strode to his room and slammed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve upset my brother,” Mycroft dryly began over the phone. John gripped the mobile in his hand tensely and briefly contemplated throwing it down the Tesco aisle. At least the call with the British Government would be put to an abrupt end.

“I know,” John muttered as his eyes scanned over boxes of pasta. “He hasn’t been back to the flat in a week.”

“And this doesn’t concern you?”

“Of course it does, Mycroft. Bloody hell, I proposed to the man.” He sucked in a breath and looked at the wheat pasta. _I don’t even like pasta that much._

“Wonderful decision,” Mycroft said in a monotone. John closed his eyes briefly before selecting a box. He turned to move down the aisle when he bumped into another person.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John apologised, and the woman turned from where she was talking to an associate. She smiled slightly and tilted her head, eyelashes fluttering and chin-length blonde hair shifting. Mycroft was saying something through the mobile, but John couldn’t hear, his right hand clasped to his shoulder, the voice buzzing against it.

“It’s okay,” the woman answered, and John found himself smiling. “You’re the one with that detective? The blogger?”

“Yes, John Watson,” he answered. He disconnected the call, pocketed the mobile and put his arm out for her to shake enthusiastically. She grinned at him and took his hand with two delicate ones.

“I’m Mary Morstan.”

 

 


	2. Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As prompted.

He saw it a week before John did. The way John was beginning to carry himself, the additional affection he was draping across Sherlock like his favourite scarf. Confident. Secure. In love. It made something inside of him prickle, catch fire and gather in his toes, unpleasant and staticky. Because this is not what he wanted.

Did he like John? Yes.

Did he like him as more than a friend? Yes.

Did he see himself spending perhaps the rest of his life with John? The answer to that question was yes, too.

But was this what John really wanted? Was he going to throw that normal, suburban dream to the wind so quickly?

And then John dropped to his knees with that damned box in his hands and stared up at Sherlock with his wide, gleaming, _happy_ eyes, and Sherlock knew the answer. And he knew his own.

“No.”

So when Mycroft tapped the space bar to show where his security cameras were pinpointing John and the Morstan girl, and how she was pushing towards him, he knew he had made the right choice.

“No.”

 

* * *

Without John, he was a case-infatuated nomad. He was able to travel to any city and don any disguise. He could adopt an accent quicker than someone could snap their fingers, and he pulled off personalities quite well. He was a passionate villain in Rome, and a concerned bystander in Norway. As he pulled a cigarette to his mouth in Rwanda, he finally came to terms with something that he had been trying to push back for a while. Maybe he was trying to be all of these people because he couldn’t face being himself.

Wrong, Sherlock reasoned, inhaling quickly, drawing the thin sheet that he had wrapped around his body closer to him as he sat outside the mud-bricked house. He couldn’t handle John’s pressure for him to be the perfect husband. He couldn’t handle the thought of being John’s husband. Because he would surely leave, surely, because no one ever stayed, because no one had a reason to.

“I love you,” John had murmured into his mouth once, one of his hands (his left, the one with the cleanest fingernails) making its way into Sherlock’s curls at the nape of his neck, softly raking his fingers through them. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Sherlock had murmured something that he couldn’t even remember, because in that moment, all that was important was John. John was reacting to Sherlock, and that was important, but what was more important was the way that his body was slowly curving into Sherlock’s, the way that his blonde hair was tousled as he leaned against the pillow, his hand still in Sherlock’s curled, his fingers locked in a loving grasp.

“Yeah, babe, yeah.” He’d climbed on top of Sherlock then, the two resting in Sherlock’s bed, moonlight tiptoeing into the dark room through the blinds, outlining John’s body in a bright glow. He’d pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, forceful yet cautious, and Sherlock had done something to John to pull him closer. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s arms, hooked his fingers in the spaces between Sherlock’s, kissed him with such a swift and slow tenderness that Sherlock decided not to mention Lestrade had called a few hours ago asking for help on an urgent case.

He was shaking, and it wasn’t from Rwanda’s nightly chill. He brought the cigarette back into the empty house before finishing it off, tossing it somewhere outside the window, and making his way to the one bed, where he proceeded to lay wide awake for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Sherlock hated this “busy work” that cases often required him to do. He was spying on an American immigrant, Kendall, who had somehow made her way to Pakistan and had a child with a man there. Said child was currently sprawled over his lap, her small back against his stomach as she stared at the telly in front of him running some hideously coloured daytime soap opera.

“‘Lock?” the brunette six-year-old inquired, before stuffing a thumb into her mouth. He shifted uncomfortably in the heat and thought about telling her to stop sucking on her fingers, but thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was this terror crying, her mother growing alarmed, and then Sherlock wouldn’t have a way in with the husband running the illegal drug growing business.

“Hmm?” Leila was wriggling around on his legs, and the red leather sofa was making small squeaking noises.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Sherlock’s shoulders snapped and he sat at attention, staring straight ahead at a place near the telly, but not exactly looking at it. Could this get any worse?

“No.”

 

* * *

 

Baker Street hadn’t changed at all. The May air gave the flat a bit of a fresher feel, but everything was still dark. Sherlock didn’t need a light to find his room and some of his old clothes to take back to Mycroft’s. He was just searching through one of the kitchen drawers when a happy laugh caught his attention. He moved to a place where he couldn’t be seen and peered around the corner. Sure enough, John and Mary were grinning as they stepped through the front door, Mary’s arm locked with John’s.

He felt a pain invade his mouth and realized he was gritting his teeth. He unlocked his jaw and stood still.

They were standing in the middle of the living room, Mary’s small hands set on John’s shoulders, a little closer than Sherlock would’ve liked. He strained to hear and could finally pick up John’s gravelly tone. Other than the huskier voice and the greyer head of hair, John looked the same, standing in a green jacket, Mary’s a bright pink contrast next to him.

“It doesn’t go away just like that --” he was groaning.

“In any other situation, I would, but I can’t.”

With his hands on her waist, John gently pushed Mary away from him and stalked into the kitchen. His large, dark eyes widened as they met Sherlock’s. _Found_. It took Sherlock a moment to regain his breath and register Mary standing behind his ex-lover.

She was smirking, her head tilted just like that day on the security feed.

“I’ve been expecting you, Sherlock. Mycroft is very informative when I need him to be.” At this, John turned and both men locked gazes with her, John’s full of surprise. Mary smiled and folded her hands in front of her.

“This is how we end it. John. You know I want to be with you. Give us both a chance. If Sherlock rejects his. . .”

It was silent for a moment, but Mary’s words hit John with an obvious force. He fumbled in his left pocket and withdrew the little dark blue velvet box for the last time.

“Sherlock . . . “

 


End file.
